A Murder of Crows: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery

by P. F. Chisholm

  Behind them were heavy running feet and shouts. After one glance to see the black-bearded man’s henchmen coming after them in a close-packed crowd and several crossbows being raised, all three of them picked up their heels and sprinted along the Fleet, running like hell for Somerset House or one of the little alleys leading into the Whitefriars if necessary. After about half a minute of serious running, Dodd was starting to feel breathless and tightchested. A crossbow twanged and he ducked instinctively, was outraged to see Marlowe drawing ahead of him as they pounded up the cobbles and wondered, in some cranny of his skull which was not in a panic, what had happened to his wind?

  There was the rumble of coach wheels on the cobbles behind him, changing to scraping as they came onto the rutted muddy disgrace of the Strand. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the black coach hammering after them, the horses nearly at the gallop, then the sound of clattering as it turned to avoid the margins of the dungheap. There was a crack and an ear-jangling crunch and crash as the wheels on one side of the coach tilted inwards and fell off. The coach toppled over sideways in a heap as the coachman leaped desperately for safety and landed on a soft pile of rotten marrows. Now that was a highly satisfying sound. Dodd had taken a great dislike to that coach and he risked another glance to see it in its splintered ruin, half on the dungheap with the coachman climbing groggily out from the muck. The horses had come to a stop with their traces trailing and were eating a London wife’s herbal windowsill.

  Then he heard another cry and squinted ahead and his heart sank: up ahead was another large body of men jogging towards them, torches held high. Dodd immediately swerved left to the awning of the Cock Tavern and eyed the red-painted shutters with a view to climbing them for a good vantage on the roof. Marlowe too dodged behind a stone conduit. Carey however picked up speed and kept running forward.

  “Mr. Bellamy!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot…”

  There was a shout and the group of men stopped, Carey was among them, and Dodd heard his voice carolling, “How very good to see you.”

  “Likewise sir,” said Bellamy, and Dodd recognised the voice of Hunsdon’s deputy steward.

  Men in Berwick jacks and black and yellow livery were fanning out into the street to block it. They raised an interesting variety of weapons. The black-bearded man’s henchmen came to a halt and the two parties stared at each other across a gap of a hundred yards.

  Dodd decided he fancied some height, so despite his lack of breath, he swung himself up on the lattices and hoisted himself to the join with another shingled roof, prayed devoutly that it wouldn’t collapse nor slip, and eased himself to a squatting position at the corner. Trying to control his ridiculous puffing, he aimed his crossbow carefully for the black-bearded man. Am I ill, Dodd wondered anxiously, och God, I must be. His heart was pounding, his breath so short that his hands wobbled on the stock of the bow, and he couldn’t get a clean shot. Ah Jesu, maybe it was plague?

  Marlowe had broken from the shelter of his conduit for the Hunsdon liverymen, and he and Carey were now invisible in the mass of them. There was a thud of hooves on the mud behind the Hunsdon party and two horses skidded to a halt. The foremost was being ridden by a broad grey-haired man in clothes that glinted with gold brocade.

  The black-bearded pursuivant was staring in rage and horror, himself panting and leaning on his sword. His mob of bullyboys were close-packed and yet he had a gap around him Dodd noted, which would be helpful for a killing shot if only his own breathing would quiet.

  Lord Hunsdon sent his horse through his men who parted for him and up alongside the black-bearded man. He had his white staff of office as the Queen’s Chamberlain under his arm.

  “What the devil do you think you’re playing at, Mr. Topcliffe? What is the meaning of this outrage?” rumbled Carey’s father.

  Topcliffe’s face drained of blood, making his face and beard more like a balladsheet woodcut than ever. He had forgotten to dye his eyebrows which were grey. The mouth moved but no words came out. Dodd squinted in the darkness and saw that the rider of the second horse was his puny lawyer, riding a little better than he ran at least.

  “I am…arresting…some notable Papist priests,” panted Topcliffe’s voice in a blustering tone.

  “You were attempting to arrest me, Mr. Topcliffe, with no warrant,” called Carey’s voice reproachfully.

  “If you had nothing to hide, why did you run?” said Topcliffe insinuatingly. “My lord, it’s a wise father that knows all his son may…”

  “I had a fancy to keep my balls,” called Carey, “I’ve got more use for ‘em than Papist priests do. Or you.”

  “My lord, the Queen’s grace must be protected from the Jesuitical plots…”

  “Good God almighty,” said Hunsdon in disgust. “Mr. Topcliffe, shut up. You may not be aware of it but my youngest son is possibly the least likely candidate for the Roman Catholic priesthood since the death of my revered and worshipful natural father, King Henry the Eighth of that name. And my half-sister, Her Majesty the Queen, knows it and has a considerable liking to him.”

  There was a silence in which Dodd could actually hear Topcliffe swallowing stickily.

  “A…a…mistake, my lord,” stammered Topcliffe, “A case of…mistaken identity. We are seeking one Father Gerard who is…well-known…to go about dressed as a gentleman.”

  “Is he?” said Hunsdon, heavily. “My lord Burghley told me the man was in Worcestershire.”

  “Quite so,” said Topcliffe, “We had the word of an informant…clearly wrong.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I shall reprimand him. Many…many apologies, my lord, Sir Robert,” gabbled Topcliffe, “I…I shall continue the search.”

  “Excellent.”

  Out of sight there was a loud clanging of a bell and the shout of fire at the Mermaid. Dodd winced. He had forgotten about that. Ah well, it would teach the innkeeper better manners than to help set up ambushes for his regulars.

  Topcliffe turned and walked with some dignity towards Ludgate Hill, past the wreckage of Heneage’s expensive coach. His men gathered round him but the coachman seemed to have run.

  Carey was at his father’s stirrup, talking fast, Marlowe not far behind. Dodd saw the flash of Hunsdon’s teeth as he sat back in the saddle and grinned.

  “Sergeant Dodd?” called Lord Hunsdon, looking around him. The City Watch shambled into view at last, with their lanterns, rattle, and bells, cautiously peering around to make sure that the trouble was truly over. One of them went over to the coach and picked up a broken bit of door, tutting.

  “Ay,” said Dodd, raising an arm, “up here, my lord.”

  Hunsdon contemplated him for a second, taking in the crossbow in his right hand.

  “There you are, of course,” he said. “By God, I do like having a Dodd on my side again.”

  He nodded at Carey who came over with a self-satisfied look on his face to help Dodd down from his narrow perch.

  ***

  The Watch wandered away again with a couple of shillings each to help them forget all about the exciting events they had just missed and Hunsdon’s small war party went back in the direction of Somerset House. The local urchins, whores, and beggars were already gathered around the coach looting it for firewood, saleable bits of metal, cushions, and leather. By the morning it would probably be completely gone. Dodd allowed himself a satisfied smile. One to me, he thought.

  “Your mother was furious when Mr. Enys brought the news,” Hunsdon said conversationally as Carey walked at his stirrup.

  “Oh Jesu.”

  Hunsdon was thoughtful. “Very sharp-tempered she is at the moment, my lady wife,” he rumbled. “Took a lot to stop her coming out with me along with her entire crew of Cornish cut-throats.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Carey with feeling.

  “Don’t thank me, lad, I can’t have your mother loose in London in the temper she’s in. Richard Tregian is still…unaccounted for.”

  Do
dd heard the intake of breath from the lawyer whose horse was right behind him and gave the man a sharp look. Enys caught this and smiled a sickly smile.

  Somerset House was ablaze with torches, intense activity on the boat-landing at the end of the gardens. Lady Hunsdon was standing in the doorway to the marbled hall, fists on her hips and two Cornishmen on either side of her with torches. She looked terrifying.

  Carey stepped up to her swiftly and bowed. “Madam,” he began, but his mother stood on her tiptoes and boxed his ears violently.

  “That’s for falling into a trap as clear as the nose on your face,” shouted Lady Hunsdon while Carey scuttled crabwise away from the backswing. “What were you using for brains, boy?”

  “Mother!” he roared, ducking another blow. Lord Hunsdon had dismounted and was very busy thanking and dismissing his men, half of whom were trying not to grin.

  Lady Hunsdon swung on Marlowe who was watching the scene between mother and son with a supercilious expression. “As for you, you goddamn sodomite, how dare you come into my lord’s house after what you…”

  Carey had edged closer to his enraged mother, caught her elbow, and was whispering urgently into her ear. Lady Hunsdon listened and her jaw set.

  “Is that a fact?” she sniffed, “Well, I’ll leave it for now if my son says you helped him, but you watch out, boy.” This was snarled at Marlowe. “If you try one of your games, I’ll have you. I don’t like you nor I don’t trust you.”

  Marlowe bowed in his superior way. “Likewise, madame, I’m sure.”

  Lady Hunsdon paused and like a witch shape-shifting was suddenly the haughty Court lady again. “Oh, very smart, aren’t we, young Mr. Marlowe, who spied for Walsingham all those years for money and a crumb of silence about his boy punks and now thinks Heneage and Topcliffe are his friends. Pah!”

  She turned her back on him with the finality of an offended lioness and hooked her arm through Hunsdon’s.

  “Mr. Bellamy, see to Mr. Marlowe and Mr. Enys, they will be our guests…” said Hunsdon.

  Enys was pale again and came anxiously up to Hunsdon. “Sir, my lord, I…I must get back to my chambers in case…”

  “Nobody is leaving Somerset House until the morning,” said Hunsdon flatly. “As for your chambers, Mr. Enys, I think you can assume that they will be ransacked tonight and there is nothing whatever you could do about it even if you were there. Best not to be there.”

  Enys looked horrified. “But…”

  “Mr. Enys,” said Lady Hunsdon, “You are, I fear, in a war with Heneage and his men. If you weren’t prepared for it, you shouldn’t have got into it.”

  Enys said nothing as the Hunsdons processed stately fashion up the stairs, lit on their way by servants carrying candles.

  ***

  Enys had gone meekly to his bedchamber and Carey and Dodd were sitting up in the Lesser Parlour over a flagon of brandywine and a pile of papers, the contents of the bag Carey had raided out of Heneage’s house earlier. Carey had set up as clerk with clean paper and an ink bottle and pens, plus a large candelabra of expensive wax candles.

  “Walsingham had me taught something of this art by Thomas Phelippes when I was in Scotland with him all those years ago,” said Carey picking up a piece of paper covered in code and putting it neatly to one side. “Of course, at the time I had no idea why…” He laughed softly for a while as if recalling a very great joke. Another piece of paper, this time mostly in ordinary writing, went to a different pile. A third piece, all over with numbers except for a sequence of letters at the top, and a third pile begun.

  Dodd watched the piles grow with Carey setting a few letters aside, wondering what was nagging him, why he was sure he had forgotten something.

  “Now then,” said Carey, picking up the first of the letters in clear and taking a gulp of brandywine. He held it up against the light of the candles, shook his head and then put it back in the bag. Several more letters followed.

  “What are ye looking for, sir?” Dodd asked at last, thinking about another pipe but then deciding against it. He didn’t like the way his chest had felt tight when he ran and it couldn’t be blamed on his doublet because he had undone the buttons in what Carey called the melancholik style. He poured himself brandywine instead.

  “Oh…I’m not sure. Something to do with Cornwall. Something about Richard Tregian or Harry Dowling or whoever the poor soul in the Thames may be.”

  “Ay sir, but they’re both dead. What’s the point?”

  “Good question.” Carey had taken off his kid gloves the better to handle the papers, and he now put up an elegant but nailless finger. “Imprimis, Richard Tregian was judicially killed in the place of another man—the Jesuit called Fr. Jackson. It’s certainly an alias. So where is Fr. Jackson? Did he escape? Did he turn his coat and then get released? In which case why go through all the palaver of having Tregian hanged, drawn, and quartered in his place. Normally when a Jesuit turns, the Cecils trumpet it abroad so why hide this one so lethally? And why Tregian? He’s a respectable gentleman, even if he is Cornish. If you were going to murder the man, you would be better advised to slit his throat in an alley and blame it on a footpad, as you pointed out before. It’s not as though there’s a shortage of them in London.”

  “Ay sir, though I’ve not been troubled recently.”

  Carey grinned. “No, Dodd, good news like you gets out quickly.”

  “Ay,” said Dodd, wondering if this was a compliment.

  “Secundus, we have a corpse from the Thames that might be Mrs. Briscoe’s brother or not, yet nobody else has claimed yet despite my father having had the announcement cried at Westminster and in the City and offering a reward for information.”

  Dodd nodded.

  “There’s something odd about the corpse though I can’t place it.” Carey frowned and stared into the fire in the fireplace for a moment. “Very irritating.”

  “Ay,” said Dodd.

  “Tertius, and possibly not connected at all with any of this, we have Enys who mysteriously turns up and offers to be our lawyer just when we need one. He has a Cornish name. His brother, he says, has disappeared and must have gone at roughly the same time as the corpse wound up in the Thames, but he says the dead man isn’t his brother.”

  Dodd thought back to that. “Ay sir, but he didnae say he didn’t know the man.”

  Carey nodded. “No, he didn’t, did he? Hm.” He paused and put up a fourth finger, this one still with its nail. “And item, we have mysterious land-deals happening in Cornwall, a Godforsaken place good for nothing but tin-mining, wrecking, and piracy. My mother likes it there, but I do not see the likes of the Earl of Southampton going and farming sheep or mining tin for that matter. It’s too far from London. Riding post and hoping not to be waylaid on Bodmin Moor, you’d feel pleased if it only took you three days to get there. If they had post houses in Cornwall, which they haven’t. A ship is a better option, frankly. More comfortable, the Cornish probably won’t rob you or wreck you if you’re sailing in an English ship, and it only takes a week.”

  He paused, thoughtfully and put up the thumb. “And item, of course, we have my esteemed lady mother’s interest in the whole matter which I frankly find very worrying. As does my father. The connection to our family of Richard Tregian is close enough to be dangerous under the wrong circumstances. Also the connection to my Lady Widdrington’s family—her father is the Trevannion who holds Caerhays Castle.”

  Dodd nodded politely. It always got back to Lady Widdrington somehow.

  Carey blinked at his spread fingers, then closed them into a fist. “Topcliffe running about the city with an armed band of men. My father here instead of going back to Oxford where the Queen still is—though she ought to be coming back to London in October despite the plague. She’ll probably stay in one of the outer palaces like Nonesuch or Greenwich, well away from the city.”

  “Why did the judge ask about court faction?” Dodd asked from idle curiosity. It had been like the qu
estion a sensible juror would ask on the Borders—is there a feud here? And then take tactfully sick if there was.

  “Good question. Why did he? What’s he heard about, or been told.”

  He looked down at the pile of papers. “We’ll have to give these back at some stage and I don’t have time to copy them all out.”

  For some reason that was the thing that tripped Dodd’s memory. He fumbled in his belt pouch and brought out the folded pieces of paper he had found wedged behind the bookshelf in Tregian’s chamber at the inn. He explained where it had come from as Carey passed the paper under his nose, smiled, and held it near the candle. Soon the brown numbers appeared written in orange juice and Carey had Dodd calling them out while he copied them out carefully. All were numbers except for a letter at the bottom which Dodd read out as a letter A, upside down.

  As Carey dipped his pen and wrote them down, he paused. “Hang on,” he said, and pulled one of the other papers towards him. Two of them were also covered with groups of numbers and the same letter at the top. An A, upside down.

  Immediately he dipped his pen and started copying them out as well, ending with three sheets of paper entirely covered with groups of numbers.

  “D’ye know what they say, sir?” Dodd asked, fascinated.

  “No, not yet. But I know how they’ve been coded,” said Carey with satisfaction, wiping off his pen and sharpening the nib.

  “Ay?” said Dodd, very unwilling to admit how little he knew about codes and ciphers.

  “Well, you see, these are just number substitution codes—where you write out the alphabet and then replace each letter with a number. There’s two ways of doing it. Either you do it in a pattern—say call A a 1, B 2 and so on, or you do it at hazard where A is 23 and B is 4 or whatever. Follow me?”

  “Ay,” said Dodd cautiously. It seemed a lot of work to be sure nobody could read what you wrote—why write it down at all then?

  “Of course the random one is better than the one in a pattern because believe me, someone skilled in the art like Mr. Phelippes or Mr. Anriques can find a pattern like that in a matter of minutes and then they can read all the correspondance you think is so secret—that’s what happened with the Queen of Scots.”